Sick Stilinski
by ChocolateandRedBull
Summary: Sick!fic The Sheriff notices something off about his son and notices the similarities between his life now and his life ten years ago.


Sheriff Stilinski knocked loudly on his son's door, knowing that it could take a hurricane to wake the sleeping teenager some mornings. He quickly pushed the door open. "Come on, kid, get your butt to school."

He frowned when there was a quiet moan from the bed, knowing that Stiles had a tendency to grunt loudly or even just yell at being woken up.

"Stiles?" the Sheriff asked. "Come on, buddy, it's time for school."

There was a small hum from the bundle on the bed, followed by an incoherent mumble.

"What was that?" the Sheriff asked, checking his watch.

"I'm coming," came a hoarse voice, "Just getting up now..." Stiles murmured, rolling over.

"You feeling alright, Stiles?" his father questioned, crossing the room to his son's bed. "You're looking a bit pale..." The Sheriff placed a hand on the teenager's forehead. "You're burning up... maybe you should stay home today."

"No, I'm fine," his son mumbled, yet to open his eyes. "Gotta go to school... gotta - gotta meet... Stiles..."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. "Okay, you're definitely staying home."

Stiles pushed himself to sit up, blinking in the low light of the room. "No, Dad," he slurred, "I gotta go to school, I'll be oka-" he froze.

"Stiles?" his father asked, cautiously.

Stiles looked up at his father with an apologetic look before gagging and retching into his own lap.

The Sheriff patiently waited until he was finished before quickly pulling the duvet and sheets from the bed, waiting for Stiles to hand him the soiled pyjama pants. He quickly shoved them into the hamper before Stiles could see them. He turned to see his son shivering on the bed in just his boxers, vomit dripping down his chest and couldn't help but have a flashback to a nine year old Stiles, the first time he'd gotten sick after his mother had passed. The Sheriff hadn't known how to handle it then but thank god he'd learned a thing or two in the last 8 years.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you some fresh pyjamas," Stiles looked up from his lap and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "But you gotta go to work," Stiles said, shivering helplessly before belching quietly into his fist. His father wiped the vomit from his chest with a towel and handed him a t-shirt and a new set of pyjama pants.

"I know, but not before I get you cleaned up and back to bed." He said, wiping his son's face clean. He couldn't help see the small child who slept in his father's bed between the ages of 8 and 11, partly for him and partly for his father, standing before him, squirming as the cloth wiped the sweat from his face.

"Go and jump into my bed, I'll get you some water and a bucket," the sheriff said, as he watched his son brush his teeth.

When he returned, he found Stiles curled up on his mother's side of the bed, hugging the pillow close to him. The Sheriff knew that being sick always made the teenager miss his mother even more.

He placed the bucket on the floor beside the shaking teenager. "That's there if you need it, buddy, and don't forget to drink your water. I'll be back on my break."

Stiles just buried himself even deeper into the large bed.

"Stiles?" The Sheriff called as he opened the front door. "You awake?"

There was a thud from upstairs and a moan. The Sheriff quickly made his way up the stairs and threw open the door to find his son and the duvet in a pile on the floor. "Hey, kid, what're you doing down there?" he asked, crouching beside him and feeling his forehead.

"Had to puke..." his son panted, "...fell out when I leaned over," the teenager coughed.

"Why didn't you just pick up the bucket?" The Sheriff quizzed.

"I tried... too heavy..."

The Sheriff frowned and peered into the small bucket to find a rather substantial amount of vomit in it. "Jesus, Stiles..."

Stiles peered solemnly up at his father through his sweaty fringe before swallowing harshly.

"Come on," the Sheriff said, holding out his hand to his son. "This room stinks, we'll put you on the couch and you can watch TV."

Stiles didn't respond, instead allowed himself to be lead downstairs and flopped onto the couch, curling in on himself as his father draped the duvet over him.

"You want anything to eat?" the sheriff asked, chuckling when a loud groan was emitted from the lump on the sofa.

The Sheriff placed the bucket beside the couch, now smelling of disinfectant rather than vomit, and replaced the glass of water with a fresh one.

"I gotta get back to work, but call me if you need me and I'll get someone else to cover for me."

Stiles just hummed before rolling over and burying himself into the back of the couch.

"Stiles? Stiles, you awake? Come on, Stiles, wake up."

Stiles moaned softly before peering out of the small gap in the duvet. "Scott?"

"Hey, buddy, how're feeling?" Scott asked, softly.

"Can't talk. Dead." Stiles said, before rolling over to face the back of the couch.

"Come on, Stiles, your Dad texted me and asked me to make you some soup and keep you company. So put in a movie while I attempt to not burn down your house." Scott said, tugging at the duvet.

Stiles moaned but turned over to face the TV, unsure of what he was watching anymore. "Fine, but we're watching 'The Judge' because it's already in the DVD player and I'm not getting up to change it."

"That's fine with me," Scott said, chuckling.

After four hours of movie-watching, eating, puking, more eating and a change of clothes, Stiles was back where he started in his own bed, which Scott had remade when Stiles' back began to hurt from the lumpy couch.

Scott sat at Stiles' desk, attempting his homework while his best friend snored softly across the room.

Scott sat up and stretched as he heard the Sheriff return from work and went to meet him.

"Hey, Scott, how's he holding up?" The Sheriff asked, shedding his jacket.

"He's doing okay, I think," Scott nodded, "he's sleeping now, but he stayed awake for movie and a half and we got half a bowl of soup into him before he threw up, but he's kept the other half down so far so I think that's a good sign."

The Sheriff nodded, "Thanks, Scott, I really appreciate it. Do you need a ride home? Or are you gonna stay?"

"I think I'll stay with him for a while, at least until I finish my homework." Scott said, turning towards the bedroom. "My mom'll be driving by here on her way home from work in about an hour so I'll get a ride with her. Oh, and I remade your bed by the way, Stiles kinda sweated through your sheets."

The Sheriff marvelled at the young man before him, unsure of when he changed from the asthmatic, mousey boy into the young man he sees now.

"Thanks, son. You need anything to eat?" the Sheriff asked, looking for a way to repay him.

"Nah, I knew Stiles wouldn't want much so I ate before I came, but thanks though." Scott said, returning to the bedroom.

The Sheriff turned to make his way back downstairs, trying not to think of the two crying boys huddled together in the graveyard all those years ago.


End file.
